Do It Right
by Arlia'Devi
Summary: Germany wants his proposal to Italy to go off without a hitch. Romano, however, has other plans. De-anon from the kink meme. [GERITA, SPAMANO]
1. One

De-anoning from the kink meme with the prompt: Romano the enthusiastic brother-in-law. I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to Hidekaz Himaruya and associates.

**Do It Right**

By Arlia'Devi

One:

Germany is in love.

Mind-numbingly, heart-crushingly, agonisingly in love with one Feliciano Vargas, the personification of Italy and his best friend for a good part of the last one hundred years. Luckily for him, Italy just happens to love him back, in such a sickening way that it makes his dearest older brother, Gilbert, mimic vomiting when he sees them kissing, or cuddling watching a film, or even touching in general.

He considers this for a while, just thinking about Italy, how his body felt in the sheets that morning and how, just once, he pressed the snooze button and rested awake with that gorgeous body pulled flushed against him, and his brown hair fanned soft around his head. His lips were parted gently and his eyes sometimes moved under his creamy lids and Germany had wondered what exactly his little Italian had been thinking about...

And then Germany's computer dozes into its screensaver, which Italy had turned into a collage of personal photos and some images of kittens and puppies he'd found on the internet. There is their trip to Venice over Christmas, then their World meeting Summit in Australia (Japan was in many of those photos as well, since they had all caught up together), and then there is New Years with Spain and Romano in Barcelona.

Germany, in an attempt not to get distracted and linger on happy memories, moves his mouse and gets back to work. It is only 9:30 in the morning, and he has a lot to do today.

A month ago, Germany decided on something, something important and very serious. For around a week he's been stressing over it quite a bit, in fact, it's given him sleepless nights, which he cannot say the same for his slumber-loving lover.

Quite frankly, he wants to ask Italy to marry him.

Again.

Except this time, Germany is going to do everything very differently. He's going to buy a better ring (he's got one picked out), he's going to ask Feliciano Vargas, not Italy, to marry him, Ludwig Bielschmidt, not Germany, and most importantly, he is not – repeat is bnot/b - going to stuff it up this time. He's going to get down on one knee, look Italy in the eye and say, with no stutter or weakness in his voice, if he, Ludwig, could have the honour of marrying him, Feliciano, the long love of his long life.

And Italy, with joy and maybe tears in his eyes and on his face, is going to say 'yes' and hug and kiss him endlessly and they'll be together forever. Their wedding will be intimate, with friends and family and –

In the daydream, Germany notices his computer has reverted back to the collage screensaver. It's gone back to New Years photographs, and it's all four of them –someone must have taken the photo- on a boat, with them all pretty inebriated at that point, with Italy plastering himself to Germany and Spain's arm around Romano –

Romano.

Germany's mind falters for a moment.

He's forgotten about Romano. Romano who, upon learning they were in a relationship together, had whirled around and told Spain to get the Armada ready because the one small coastline Germany had going to get obliterated by the better Italia, because his brother was obviously compromised. He was the bastard potato eater who spoke a stupid, funny-ass language and thought he knew what 'real sports cars were'.

i "Ha! Those Bastardo-Moron-Wagons have nothing on the Lamborghini Veneno, right Feli… Feli?!"/i

Germany sighs and picks up his mobile phone, flicking through the contacts until he finds his brother's number. He calls.

"West," comes the groggy reply on the other end. "What the hell do you want at this unawesome hour?"

"It's almost ten in the morning, brother," Germany replies. "Can you talk? It's important."

"Well, hell, yeah sure," there is a small rustle of sheets and Prussia clears his throat. "What do you want?"

"Well…," he starts.

"Spit it out, I haven't got forever," Gilbert snaps back.

"I'm going to ask Feliciano to marry me," Ludwig says, getting straight to the point.

"Didn't you already do that?" Prussia mutters.

"Ja, but that's not the point-,"

"Oh yeah!" interrupts his brother with a cackling laugh. "I remember now! Hahaha, it was a total disaster. Geez, are you a glutton for punishment or what?"

"It was a long time ago," replies Germany. "Nevertheless, I am going to do it. Here is my problem…"

"Well, go on," Prussia eggs.

"His brother and I aren't on good terms – in fact, I'm sure he positively loathes me. Do I need his permission, since they're related?"

"Permission?" Prussia replies. "You're such an old stick for someone so young. I don't know."

"Would you like Feliciano to ask for you permission if he wanted to marry me?"

Prussia considers this for a moment, because the line is silent for a moment.

"I guess," he muttered. "But in the end, Feliciano's his own person, and if he wants to marry you, he's going to do it whatever his brother thinks. I'd probably ask for a dowry, you know."

"But in-law relations…"

"Like you'll be the only person in the world that has problem with their in-laws," Gilbert huffed.

"I think I'm going to try and do it," Germany replied. "To do this right – it's all about doing it right this time."

"Well it's your fucking funeral, isn't it?" Prussia laughs. "At least I suppose, Italy has nice waters to be thrown into, and pretty tropical fish to eat at you."

"Surely not," Germany rolls his eyes. "Well, I'm going to call him now, see if we can't arrange something for the weekend." He clicked the phone off, missing his brother's sudden warning yell!

On the other side of the phone, Prussia huffs, looking at the blank phone. Being friends with Spain, he knows there are slight differences in their everyday schedule and a German's everyday schedule, mainly in which the Spaniard rarely rises, if he can help it, before 10am.

* * *

Germany manages to get Romano's number off an old contact sheet from a meeting he had held two years ago in Tuscany. There's no way he'll ask Italy for it, because it may spoil his plan, and Spain hadn't replied to the text message he'd sent in regards to the number. Nevertheless, he's got it, and at almost ten, he calls it.

It rings five times, and then Romano picks up.

"P… pronto, chi parla?" Romano says through the phone. His voice is deep and husky, and Germany realises with a terrible feeling settling in that he's awoken Romano prematurely, and that, for a moment it provides relief, Romano doesn't know who is speaking.

"Buongiorno," Germany begins formally. "Questo è -,"

"Oh fuck," replies Romano, his voice taking a steadily more irritated tone to it. Surely in the few syllables he could have not recognised him as Germany?

"What the hell do you want, potato bastard? Do you know what the fucking time is, you inconsiderate jerk?"

"I apologise, Romano – I didn't mean to wake you."

"Yeah, speak fucking English," Romano replies. "I could tell from the first word it was you butchering our beautiful language with your uncivilised grunts."

That hurts. He's been trying to pick up Feliciano's accent recently, and he thought he'd been going well.

"Well, I called because-," Germany clears his throat a little.

"Yeah, spit it out?"

"I wanted to know if you wanted to get a cup coffee with me on the weekend?" Germany says confidently. There's a pause on the other end of the phone. He doesn't know if Romano's hung up, or if he's boiling in anger, or what, but then he hears Spanish in the background, and the sheets rustle a bit and a heavy sigh. Romano replies back in Spanish – what he says, Germany has no idea, but makes out the word café, and so assumes they're talking about him.

"I want to speak to you," Germany says, pulling the conversation back to him. "About Feliciano."

"Are you breaking up with him?" Romano replies, almost a little eagerly.

"Do you agree to say, Saturday afternoon? What do you say that café in Milan?"

There's a pause.

"Make it Saturday morning, asswipe. It's too hot to go out in the afternoon."

"Good."

"Fucking ciao."

The dial tone rings in his ear before he has time to reply back in a more polite goodbye.

* * *

Italy has to go to Rome on Friday night because there's been an accident, and though he really really really doesn't want to go on a weekend and because it's all so unfair, he's a little belligerent to get in the car, but Germany manages to convince him it's all perfectly fine to spend the weekend apart. In fact, it works into Germany's plans quite perfectly.

"I really can't believe you're doing this," Gilbert chuckles as Germany ties his tie and laces his laces on Saturday morning. It's eight, and he needs to meet Romano at nine-thirty in Spain.

"Well, it needs to be done," Ludwig replies.

"And what if you ask for his permission and he says 'no way in hell potato-freak'?" he does his best impression of Romano, but it comes off a little ape-ish.

"Then I've tried," Germany points out. "And don't do that impersonation when Italy is around."

Prussia huffs and Ludwig puts his wallet in the back pocket of his pants. Then he grabs his car keys and leaves to drive to the small airstrip and shed that contains his private jet. They jet to Milan, and Germany arrives just a few minutes after nine thirty. He texts Romano that he'll be at the café by ten.

The café is small and quaint, but it does good coffee and perhaps that might be the only thing they really have in common – their love of coffee.

Germany waits in the small booth and drinks the latte. It's magnificent as usual. The booth is private, which is nice, but Romano spots him almost instantly among the crowd when he enters the café. Romano is wearing a pair of black trousers with a brown leather jacket and leather shoes. He's got on a pair of expensive looking sunglasses, his hair tousled in the wind – he looks very trendy and inexplicitly Italian.

"All right," says Romano, slipping into the booth and sitting opposite Germany. "Cut the crap, potato-bastard, what is this all about?"

"Do you want a coffee first?"

"Double espresso."

"I'll pay."

"You invited me, you'll be paying," Romano replies. Germany hides a small frown. At least Italy subtly tries to get someone to pay for him when they go out.

Germany calls over a waiter and orders Romano's coffee in Italian. He doesn't know why he does it, it's a simple phrase sure, but it's probably because he wants to show Romano he's trying to make an effort. That's probably it.

"You said it was about fratello – well, what is it?"

"Does he know you're here?"

"No," Romano huffed. "Why should he?"

Good, thinks Germany. He hadn't had time to clear that up.

"Well, I asked you to coffee because I want to get to know you more, Romano – Lovino?"

"Romano-," corrects Romano. "And why the fuck for? That's not exactly on my list of fun things to do – hanging with potato-bastard. Wait, I'll have to reschedule my fucking root canal, but I think I can fit you in."

"Well," Germany says. Romano's coffee is placed in front of him and he sips it instantly. Germany hopes that this might placate him for the moment. "I was hoping we could get to know each other, since I wanted to ask you for something… specifically, your permission."

Romano sips his coffee again. He doesn't say anything. Germany continues on fearlessly (not really, he shouldn't be scared of Romano but how could an Italian be this damn intimidating?).

"I want to marry your brother."

"No."

The response is instant.

Germany takes a moment to actually hear it.

"… What do you mean 'no'?"

Romano finishes his coffee and wipes his upper lip with the napkin.

"I mean, potato-bastard," says Romano very calmly. Perhaps too calmly. "You can buy me all the half-assed burnt coffees in the world, claim all the lands on the Earth in the name of the great Italia, tattoo my name across your ass, but never will I ever give you permission to marry my brother."

Germany shakes his head.

"But… why?" Germany chokes.

Romano frowns. "You're a great pain in my ass, your accent is funny and frankly you're annoying. For fifty years you ran my brother into the ground, and all he did was follow you around like a little dog. Italia is a great nation, and I won't have you having any part of it. Not while I'm here."

Romano got up.

"What do you want him for anyway? We both know he's ditzy, annoying, lazy – what do you possibly see in him? Are you after his inheritance as well, you know you wouldn't be the first fucking one and you sure as hell won't be the last!" Romano spits. "We've lasted milleniums together, potato-fucker, and we certainly don't need you coming in to shit all over it! Viva l'italia, bastardo!"

Germany watches as Romano gets up, knocking all the cups over on the table in the process and spilling a bit of coffee on Germany's pants in the process, and only gets up to chase him when Romano begins to storm off.

Germany grasps Romano by the forearm and just by sheer physical strength, is able to stop him from running off.

"Romano, please!" Germany pleads.

"Fucking let go of me, son of a bitch!" Romano hisses, trying to push Germany away.

"Okay, I won't ask Italy to marry me," Germany says, pulling Romano back. "I'm sorry. I won't ask him."

Romano stops for a moment and turns to Germany.

"And you'll leave him alone!"

Germany hesitates.

"Just don't tell him about this, please."

"What? Scared you'll break up?"

No, Germany thinks. I just can't have another fucked up proposal under my belt, really.

"Yes," he says. Its half lies and half truth. "Just… don't tell him."

"I want something in return."

"Anything."

And that was how Germany later got in trouble with his bosses for 'losing' the blueprints to the new line of BMWs scheduled for manufacturing while in Italy and the sudden spike in Alfa Romeo's popularity within France, UK, America and Australia.

* * *

Please take a moment to post a review. They take only 30 seconds and help me out a lot.  
Look out for the next chapter coming soon: will our favourite Spaniard warm Romano up to the idea of bonding with Germany? See you soon!  
~ Arlia'Devi


	2. Two

**Two**

When Romano returns to their Barcelona home, Spain can tell that the Italian has worked himself into quite a mood. Spain is in the kitchen preparing some food and a jug of sangria for their dinner tonight when Romano walks (more like stalks) in, takes a glass out of the dishwasher, fills it up with water from the fridge and chugs it down.

"So…," says Spain cheerily. "How did it go?"

Romano swallows.

"I don't want to talk about it. It was pathetic."

Spain turns to Romano, who is almost as red as a tomato – and it's not from the sun, it's actually quite a nice day outside.

"Did you have a good time?"

"The coffee was burnt, the company was dull, Milan was humid."

Spain turns back to his food. "I guess not then," he hums. Romano leaves and goes out into the lounge area for a while. Spain doesn't see him until the Sangria is finished and he's changed his clothes again.

"And oh god you should have seen what he was wearing-," Spain realises that in fact, Romano is talking to him. "Like he could be any less conspicuous – he looked like he was going to work in a big ass office on a weekend. How could he not be the first person I see in that café?"

"What did he want, anyway?" Spain asks. "Germany is, well, he's a nice guy, but it does seem strange to call you up as he did."

Romano hesitates for a moment.

"It doesn't matter. It was stupid."

Spain turns and looks at Romano over his shoulder. "_Mi querido_, Germany would not have asked if it was not important, to him at least."

Romano snorts. "Don't call me that stupid name."

Spain laughs gently and put the Sangria in the fridge, purposely caressing Romano's side as he does so. Romano squirms out of the way a little and leans against the kitchen bench.

"So I thought we could go down to the beach later," Spain smiles. "Maybe swim for a while and get some ice cream? You can finish the book in the shade and then we could have a siesta together."

"HE ASKED TO FUCKING MARRY HIM!" Romano cries, pushing Spain away. "Fuck your beach, Spain, there are more important things to worry about!"

Spain pauses for a moment before breaking out into a great grin.

"Really?" he asks gleefully. "Wow! Germany asked Italy to marry him! Wow, and did he say 'yes'? I bet he did, although I'm a little sad he's off the market but-,"

"THE POTATO BASTARD DIDN'T ASK ITALY, HE ASKED ME!" Romano blurts.

Spain frowns for a moment.

"He asked… you to marry him?" Spain tries to clarify.

"No, you dull churro-chomper!" Romano explains. "The coffee was to ask me if it's okay to ask him!"

"Ooooh!" Spain snaps his fingers. "He was asking for your permission. I see. For a moment there I was majorly confused!"

"Finally!" Romano grunts.

"And so, what did you say?"

Romano looks over his shoulder and scoffs. "I said 'no', obviously. Fuck him."

Spain frowns and approaches Romano. "Mi querido, why did you say no?"

"Because I felt like it, that's why," Romano replies, sinking into the lounge. "And because fuck him, who does he think he is coming to me? And dressed like that no less and what would that make Feliciano? He spends all his time with that dickhead already and-,"

"Romano," Spain says patiently. "I think you're being a little bit harsh."

Romano sits up straight and looks at Spain like he's confessed to a murder.

"Who's fucking side are you on?"

"I'm not on anyone's side, Lovi," Spain replies. "I'm just saying, did you think about how Feliciano would feel? They have been together for a long time, and it was nice of Germany to consider you in the decision and respecting your brother and your family, enough to ask you, don't you think?"

Romano switches on the television and turns it up loud. Spain sighs and gets off the kitchen stool to walk off. They probably won't be going to the beach today.

"I'm just saying," Spain hesitates, because he has a terrible habit of not backing down (he didn't as a pirate, and he won't now). "That he's made an effort."

Romano doesn't reply. Spain sighs and walks away.

* * *

Meanwhile, Germany is getting home. Prussia is in the main lounge room and is watching a film. Germany hangs up his coat on the rack and puts his keys and wallet in the bag. The house smells like oven pizza, which Feliciano absolutely loathes. This means two things: that Prussia hasn't done the shopping like Germany has asked, and also that Italy isn't home because he wouldn't have allowed Prussia to consume such a monstrosity and he's always looking for a way to mess up the kitchen.

Feliciano isn't home. Good.

Prussia pauses the film when Germany walks past the doorway.

"So!" he shouts throughout the house. "How did it go?"

"Terribly!"

Prussia climbs off the lounge and follows his brother to his bedroom, where is he taking off his tie and shoes.

"Well?"

"Romano had a fit," Germany shook his head. "I bought him coffee, approached it calmly, but he completely shut me down, verbally abused me and the stormed off. It was a complete disaster."

Prussia sighed and leant against the doorframe.

"You know… I told you so," Prussia says. "So are you going to go through with the proposal?"

Germany shakes his head. "I think I might drop it for now…"

"What?" Prussia cries. "Because of Romano? Come on, West, have a bit of back bone?"

"It's just not the right time," Germany replies. The phone on the dresser rings then, and Germany reaches across to answer it. It's Italy – Feliciano.

"Germany?" Feliciano asks when Germany picks up.

"Ja, Feli, what's the matter?"

"I'm going to have to stay all weekend," Italy replies, a real disappointment and sadness in his voice. "I'm sorry, Luddy, I won't be back until tomorrow night, at the earliest."

"It's okay, Italy," replies Germany. "You have to do your work."

"I guess…," mutters Italy. "But I had so much planned for us this weekend."

"It can go on hold until next weekend."

"I guess…," Italy sighs. Then there's someone talking rapidly in the background. "Oh," he says. "I have to go, Germany. I love you."

"I love you too, Feliciano. Call me when you can."

He clicks off the phone, looks at Prussia and then falls back on the bed with a huff to study the ceiling for a while.

There's a long, pregnant silence.

"You've already bought the ring, haven't you?" Prussia says from the door eventually.

Germany keeps his eyes on the white ceiling and sighs again.

"Ja."

* * *

They do end up going to the beach and they don't speak of what had transpired that morning. Spain swims a few laps to a bouy in the ocean and then back again. Romano finishes his crime/thriller novel and sunbakes for a while. When Spain comes back, he's wet and panting and Romano complains at him kicking up dirt and it's still all the same.

They sleep for half an hour. Spain gets a sunburn when they get back to the house. They shower together, washing the sand off and then they eat the meal Spain had prepared beforehand. Spain pours to long glasses of Sangria.

"I'd ask Feliciano if I could marry you," Spain points out when neither of them are talking.

Romano rolls his eyes. "As if we are talking about this again. And we're not fucking getting married because we're not a fucking couple, damn it."

Spain smiles gently. "You kissed me in the shower." He runs his hand through Romano's damp hair and the boy leans away.

"It doesn't matter. They're not getting married."

"How do you know Feliciano won't ask Germany, anyway?"

"Because he won't," Romano replies.

"Sounds like fine logic there, mi querido," Spain sighs. "All I am saying is that Feliciano is going to do what he likes, even regardless of what his big brother thinks sometimes. Maybe you should try getting to know Germany. Just try. It would mean a lot to Feliciano, I think."

"Like I care what Feliciano thinks."

"I think you do," Spain replies. "Okay, that's all we're going to say about this topic." He got up from the table and kissed Romano's cheek. "Do you want to watch a film after we clean up?"

Romano doesn't say anything to that, but they clean up and watch a movie anyway.

* * *

Germany is sleeping and it's a little after five in the morning when the door opens downstairs and a pair of leather shoes echo against the wooden staircase. The dogs bark, but no one pays attention to them. Prussia, in the basement, hears the creaking of the floorboards vaguely, but drifts back to sleep almost instantly.

Suddenly, the light to Germany's room is flicked on and he is startled awake.

In a rush, he sits up, his eyes stinging as they adjust to the light.

When his eyes finally do come out of their painful blurriness, Germany blinks twice and no it's really there – it's really Romano is standing, fully dressed with a hard expression and his arms crossed, at the foot of his bed.

"Get the fuck up, we're going out."

Germany blinks again and rubs his eyes. Romano's still there, looking as pissed as ever. He looks at his clock and reads the time.

"… Is… is this something with the mafia?" he stammers drowsily and then yawns. "Are you… taking care of me?"

"What?" Romano huffs. "No, you dumb fuck. I'm here to fucking bond all right?"

"Bond?"

"YOU ASKED ME TO BOND YESTERDAY MORNING!" Romano yells monotonously, as if it's the most evident thing in the world. "Now hurry up and get dressed, we're going out." He went over to Germany's closest. Ignoring the large amount of Italian designer clothes that definitely weren't in Germany's size, he grabs out an outfit to wear.

"And we're going shopping, obviously," Romano huffs, lying the clothes out on the bed. "Geez, do you make the ugliest clothes here or what? The shoes are okay, I guess." Romano looks to Germany who is still sitting in bed, just staring at him. "Are you just going to fucking stare?"

"… It's five in the morning," Germany mutters. "Those sleeping tablets were stronger than I thought…," he reaches over to the bedside table and takes a sip of the water.

Romano huffs and folds his arms. "Either you get out of bed and get dressed within the next 10 seconds, or I'm out of here and you can kiss whatever chance you have with my brother goodbye."

Almost like a robot, Germany gets out of bed. He walks towards Romano warily and grabs his pants and belt. He zips them up while constantly under the scrutiny of this strange Romano, who then hands him his shirt, which he buttons up.

"Where are we going?"

"Milan. We're the fuck else would we go for shopping?" he snorts. "Düsseldorf?" Romano laughs. Germany just follows the man out of his bedroom like some sort of zombie. "Get ready, and hurry up, the lamb is running out the front."

* * *

Thanks everyone who reviewed the first chapter. Please take a moment to post a review before you go! They take only 30 seconds and help me out a lot.  
Look out for the next chapter coming soon: what does Romano have planned?  
See you soon!  
~ Arlia'Devi


	3. Three

**Three**

In the Lamborghini, which is a crimson red and looks mean as hell, is two jumbo sized coffees and a pastry. As they get in, Romano sips his coffee and says, "This is what real coffee tastes like, not that shit you got me yesterday," before driving down Germany's driveway and into the German city.

Driving through Berlin, Romano doesn't talk much. There is no music playing, there is no conversation, and Germany doesn't want to distract Romano. The coffee is good, so he sips it for a while and eats the buttery pastry – it's hardly a proper breakfast, but he's not going to say anything about it.

"The only thing you're really good for," Romano mutters as they get on the autobahn and he floors the car and the beautiful engine roars like a giant cat. "No speed limits."

Germany yawns and finishes the coffee.

"It was good."

"Is this the turn to Milan?"

"Ja."

"Good."

"How long have you had this car for?" Germany asks, shifting in the seat. "It's nice."

"A year."

"Expensive?"

"Don't know. Didn't pay for it."

Germany doesn't want to ask. Italy has told him Romano's bee having problems with the mafia recently, though he does go out of his way to avoid them. Still, crime is considerably low in Germany, especially organised crime, so he doesn't really understand or try to get involved in case it bites him in the butt. Besides, Italy says Romano can handle it.

"I see."

"Doesn't my brother shop for you?" Romano asks. "How can your wardrobe be that terrible?"

Germany shrugs.

"Do you like music?" he asks.

Romano slows down for a turn.

"Not really," he replies. "A little, I guess. What about your Berlin house music?"

"That is most definitely my brother's scene," Germany replies, remembering the large headaches he'd gotten from the many house and electronica clubs that his brother had so loved in the mid 90's and early 00's. "Feliciano likes classical."

"I know," Romano replies. "It's fine I guess." He sighs, and then asks, "So… what do you like to do… for fun…?"

Germany settles into the passenger seat. "I guess, I work out-?"

"For fun?" Romano blanches. "You're one weird guy."

"Sometimes Feliciano and I go to the theatre and that's nice. Social drinks, normal kinds of things. Watching soccer," Germany explains. "And you?"

Romano sighs over the wheel.

"Sometimes, I guess I like to go shopping. Cook, too, I suppose."

"Pasta?"

"Of course."

"Spain and I went to the beach yesterday," he replies warily.

"I see," says Germany. The car is very quiet. He wishes Romano would turn the radio on, but he fears if he does it will come off as rude. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Enough."

They're silent for another fifteen minutes and Romano does turn the radio on, muttering about maybe putting on some music. Germany is relieved because Romano seems to like nice music, which he thinks is Spainish. Suddenly, Romano takes out the disc.

"Sorry, this is Spain's fucking playlist," he apologises and throws the CD in the back seat. He fishes through the glove box then, never taking his eyes off the road and finds a classical CD of an Italian opera singer.

"I think I've seen him… in iOrbecche/i, was it?"

Romano nods and plays the CD. "Yeah, the one where they all knock each other off in the end. I saw it too."

The meaningless and awkward small chat goes on through the sunset. Germany wishes he had another coffee and that Romano would slow down, but the traffic in Southern Germany is increasing in the early morning, so he is forced to. By around nine in the morning, they arrive at the peak of Italy and drive into Milan.

"What are we going to do today, then?" Germany asks.

Romano huffs. "I don't know – bond, and shit. What you normally do."

"Are we going shopping first then?"

"You in those clothes? Isn't it a given?" Romano huffs. "You can use my tailor. He's good and he lives close by."

Apparently, clothes are the most important. First they visit Gucci, and now Germany remembers why Italy has never bought anything for him – because he's never dared to walk into any of the expensive shops Italy buys from, because he does know his clothes are more 'functional' than the ones that these shops stock. Italy has asked and asked to buy nice clothes for going out for Ludwig, but he's always denied or Italy has just brought them home for him – he's never actually been in such a store and tried anything on.

Thankfully, Romano doesn't see anything that really catches his eye either, so he approaches Germany and tells him he knows exactly what he needs and where to find it.

The next shop is Armani, and Germany feels the same about that as he did about Gucci.

"Potato-head," Romano calls from a rack. "What size are you?"

"Where abouts?"

"Around the ass."

"Um," Germany flushes. "thirty-four?"

"I'll get you a thirty-six," Romano replies, tossing Germany a pair of dark jeans. They're lovely, and Germany checks the price tag and almost faints.

"Keep your head on, they're on me, asswipe," Romano replied. "Just get into the change rooms and try them on."

The assistant tries to hide a small smile and Germany wants to die, if only one could die from embarrassment. He wants to call Feliciano to come and save him, if only he knew what was happening at that very moment, he'd fall on the floor in hysterics.

Germany shuffles near the changing rooms.

"Do you gentlemen need any help today?" asks the assistant politely, in the Italian Germany can understand.

"No, bella," Romano replies in a smooth tone. "I'm here with my brother-in-law. My stupid brother obviously thought there was something wrong with Italian women and went for a German." Germany rolls his eyes in the change room as he shucks off his jeans. "But look at you, there's nothing wrong with you, is there?"

The Italian woman laughs gently as Germany does up the buttons to the jeans. They fit well, but he likes the few jeans he does wear to be worn in and soft.

"I'm coming out now," he announces lowly.

"Hurry it up," Romano replies.

Germany slips out from behind the curtain. Instantly, he feels mortified under Romano's harsh scrutiny. He knows he's only looking at the jeans but when he comes over and demands Germany to pull up his shirt and sticks his fingers down the side of his pants to check the waistband, he feels his blush spread to his ears. Then Romano goes behind him, and checks, well… his behind. Then he turns to the assistant again.

"Good fit, don't you think?" he asks.

"Perfetto," replies the assistant.

"Good. We'll take it. Can he leave them on?"

"Of course."

But- Germany wants to say – but this is all so fast, and it's too quick and he's not entirely sure. Romano reaches into his pants again, and Germany squirms as he rips off the price tag and takes it over to the counter to pay. He says something to the assistant again and she laughs gently before he swipes his card.

When Romano comes back over, Germany decides to give him a piece of his mind.

"I don't feel comfortable with this, really, Romano," Germany stutters.

"Yeah well, you can buy lunch," he replies. "Hurry up. Valentino is next."

In Valentino, Romano finds a nice trench coat that he likes and picks up a jacket for Germany, instead of the plain white shirt he's wearing at the moment. The jacket is really very nice – it's a military green in colour finishes at the hips with a khaki green racing stripe along the bottom hem and across the hems of the sleeves. It's got a hard collar and has a few functional pockets, meanwhile it's also tailored at the back to pull in.

"And a black shirt," Romano says, giving him the garments. "Hurry up."

Germany goes to try them on. Strangely enough, he really does like them. The black shirt is collarless and simple, it's nice but it doesn't itch or ride up. The jacket suits him well – it's like wearing an expensive and nice military jacket, one that he can wear out to meals and lunches and so on. Romano must think it's nice too, because he pays for the clothes, and for the coat he's picked out for himself as well.

"One thing left," Romano says, putting on his sunglasses. "Those terrible shoes."

Germany looks down at his simple dress shoes. They're black, lace-up, nothing amazing, but they do the job.

"Not snakeskin," Germany replies. "Anything but snakeskin." Feliciano has a pair of greenish snakeskin shoes and he cannot stand the sight of them.

"Please," huffs Romano. "Snakeskin was so 2012. Don't insult me."

"I didn't realise it was an insult…" Germany mutters.

Romano looks at him with a scowl. "Shut up."

They arrive at Salvatore Ferragamo a few stores down on a large shopping street.

"Anyone who is anyone, owns a pair of Ferragamos," explains Romano. "Feliciano has four. I have five pairs. They never go out of fashion."

He sits Germany down and looks among the racks. There are a lot of beautiful shoes here and the store smells distinctly of rich leather and wood.

"What size are you?"

"11."

Romano picks up a pair of dark brown leather lace-ups. There are a few shoes that don't have lace-ups and look like the ones you just slip on - like slippers, Germany thinks – and he's glad Romano didn't pick those. Romano disappears for a second, to converse with the manager, and then they both come back, speaking rapid Italian and telling Germany to take his shoes off.

The manager and Romano seem to know what's best for him and all he has to really reply is 'yes' or 'no', like "Can your toe touch the front of the shoe?" and "Walk a few steps, is it comfortable? – the leather will stretch and soften of course", and then he's got two pairs of shoes that are comfortable and he goes for the darker brown of the pair, the one with the imprinted leather detailing and the small stitching. It seems the best one, and Romano is happy with it too, it seems.

He pays and Germany wears, and wonders so so so wearily if it could be time for lunch at all yet.

Romano shops for another hour before he announces to Germany that they'll find somewhere to eat.

When they do, it's a nice restaurant and Germany is glad to see it's licenced. It may be too early to drink yet, but Italy and Romano have a glass of wine with lunch most times, so he thinks a quick beer will not hurt anyone.

That's what he thinks at least.

* * *

Five hours later, its evening and Germany stumbles through his doorway and then promptly falls on the floor in front of Prussia, who is on his laptop, resting on the lounge. Aster, the oldest dog of theirs, is resting inside as well, gets up from the rug and sniffs Germany's face.

Germany burps unpleasantly and Prussia cannot contain his laughter.

"West, it's like five-thirty you piece of shit!" Prussia laughs, pulling his younger brother off the ground. "Feli called.

"FELICIANO?!" Germany cries.

"Is still in Rome," Prussia says.

Germany staggers to his feet and makes his way to the ground-floor powder room where he promptly leans over the toilet and vomits up his lunch.

"And where the fuck did you get those clothes?" asks Prussia. "Come on, take off that jacket before you ruin it," Prussia peels off the nice jacket, checks it's label before wrapping a towel around Germany's shoulders.

"So, what on earth were you trying to do by getting yourself so unawesome before dinner?"

Germany spits into the basin.

"Trying to marry my boyfriend!" he wails gently. Prussia sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," Prussia says.

"No…," Germany sighs. "I… just want to stay here."

Prussia huffs.

"Can we call Feliciano…?," Germany asks quietly.

Prussia shakes his head. "Definitely not."

"I hate Romano," Germany whimpers and then promptly vomits again. When he finally recovers, he continues. "I've been nice to him for a long time, I've never done anything against him – and he does this to me!"

Prussia wants to consider that more than likely Germany has done this to himself, and that well, maybe it might be half Romano's fault, but really, Germany isn't an adolescent anymore. Prussia hauls him up, then they stagger up the stairs together and Prussia confiscates Germany's phone, just in case, and then he puts his brother to bed without any dinner and leaves a bucket by the bed just in case.

Before he leaves, Prussia looks back and wonders if his little brother putting himself through such hell is really worth it. Marriage is stupid, anyway.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Though this is a deanon from the kink meme, it doesn't contain any smut in the coming few chapters. If you've never been on the kink meme it's a great community of people, so definitely check it out and think about contributing.

Anyway, that's all from me this week. Please take a second to review before you go!

~ Arlia'Devi


	4. Four

**Four:**

Romano arrives at Spain's place in time for dinner, parking his car in the driveway. He car beeps as he locks it, and makes his way into the Spanaird's house, where he can smell a meal being prepared.

"Romano is home!" Spain calls.

"Yeah," he replies, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. "What's for dinner? I swear, if it's churros again."

"I've got some steak and a salad," Spain replies as Romano comes into the kitchen. "How was your day? You left early. Where did you go?"

"Out," Romano replies. He goes over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of chilled wine. Spain turns the steak on the small over-stove grill as Romano poured two glasses. A garden salad sits in a bowl on the table.

"I called you buy you never picked up," Spain pointed out. "You went to Italy? Is that Valentino?"

"Si," Romano sighs. "I did."

"Hm? With Feliciano?"

"Potato-head."

Spain pauses for a moment.

"Oh," he says, because he can't say 'well I was right, wasn't I?' to Romano because he'll crack a fit, but he knows that Romano obviously thought about what he'd said, which was really thanks enough. "Well, that was nice."

Romano smirks. "It was actually."

Spain quirks an eyebrow toward his lover. "Really?"

Romano smiles over the lip of his wine glass.

"What?" Spain laughs, a little on edge to see such a smile on Romano's face.

"Nothing," he replies and downs his wine. "Hurry up, I'm hungry."

Spain serves up dinner and they eat it without speaking. When they're around half-way through, Spain really can't handle it anymore and says,

"So what happened between you and Germany?"

Romano doesn't reply for a moment. He chews his steak, sips his wine and then finally shrugs.

"We went shopping."

"Why are you smiling then?" he asks. "What did you do to him?"

"What did the potato freak do to himself?" Romano almost laughs. "Nervous drinkers will do as they please. It is not my concern. Apparently it's easier to bond over "

"iRomano- /i,"

"For the last five drinks, I was ordering myself grape juice and Germany full strength steins," Romano sighs. "I ordered him a jet home, and then I left him." Romano laughs.

"He's not going to be happy, Romano," Spain sighs. "I thought you were actually trying."

"Not my problem," Romano grunts and finishes his meal. "I didn't do anything."

"And Feliciano?"

"Like he's going to tell him," Romano says. "He's got this idea that if Feliciano gets a whiff of this proposal, it will be ruined. Apparently, Germany just can't ruin another proposal."

Spain raises his eyebrows at this. "I see. Hm… I wonder about that."

Feliciano gets home midday on the Sunday, two hours after Germany's risen, nursing a terrible, terrible hangover. He's managed to shower and shave and comb his hair. He's also managed to bribe his brother into not saying anything about anything that happened last night when Feliciano gets home.

He winces from the kitchen where he's making some brunch (mainly because he's skipped breakfast and has just drunk water in an attempt to sober up quickly), when Feliciano calls out his name in a high pitched ring. He is about to turn and leave the kitchen to greet his lover when he turns suddenly and he's embraced.

"I missed you so much Germany!" Feliciano says against his chest. "I'm sorry I was away for so long! Hug me! Kiss me, please!"

Germany does both of these things, and then they hug a little more. Feliciano smiles and kisses Germany's cheek.

"Ve… if I didn't have to work, we would have gone on a picnic in the sun, or to the beach…," he sighs and looks up to Germany. "What did you do this weekend?"

He didn't go shopping, he didn't get mindlessly drunk, he didn't have the worst weekend of his life –

"Worked," he replies monotonously.

"Oh," Feliciano's eyes drop and he shrugs. "Boring week for both of us then. Hey! How about I make dinner and we watch a movie!"

Germany is about to reply that the idea sounds lovely when his mobile phone rings on the counter. He leans over to pick it up, and it's Spain's number which is strange. Feliciano shrugs a little and leaves the bathroom to go and have a shower.

"Potato-head," Romano is on the other end when Germany answers. "I'm calling off Spain's phone."

"Oh," Germany clears his throat. "Hello."

"Listen," Romano huffs. "Yesterday got a bit out of hand."

"You're telling me," Germany replies.

"Do you want to go out to dinner with me tonight?"

"I'm supposed to be staying home," Germany replies, though he can't deny that he's shocked that Romano has rung up just to propose a dinner between them. Maybe… maybe he is warming up to this whole thing? "We're going to watch a film."

"You'll be home in time."

"I'm not sure," Germany hesitates.

"Listen, I'm trying here," Romano bites back. "So it's either a yes or a no. What is it because I haven't got all goddamn day."

"Fine."

"I'll meet you at Duke's, you know the place, right? At six. I'll send you through the directions," and as soon as Germany says all right he'll be there, Romano is gone. Germany clicks off the phone and goes to find Italy.

On the other end of the phone, Romano smiles and slips Spain's phone back onto the table. Spain comes in from the tomato fields a few moments later, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin and Romano picks a warm tomato from the basket and bites into it. Spain smiles at him softly before putting the basket on the table.

"Going out tonight. Don't make me food," Romano says.

Spain quirks an eyebrow.

"Where are you going exactly?"

"Out with potato-head."

Spain cracks a smile. "Really?"

Romano laughs back. "Yeah. For dinner."

"Wow, I'm impressed Romano," Spain says. "Where are you going to go?"

"Duke's," Romano replies. Spain nods and then looks a little perplexed. "You know the place right? How much Italian do you think Feliciano has taught Germany?"

Spain considers this for a moment.

"Considering how much Spanish I've taught you…," he sighs. "Probably not much."

Romano throws the top of the tomato into the bin and smiles.

"Perfect."

Spain's brows pucker and he looks at Romano with consideration. "Oh Romano, don't-,"

Germany has managed to get out of dinner with Feliciano with the promise he will watch whatever Italy wants to watch when he gets home. It's easy enough, because Germany may have said a little little white lie and said this was the office calling him in.

Duke's is a nice restaurant, in the top of Italy. Germany has never been here before, but Romano's car is parked in the lot and he's leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. He's dressed finely, as usual, and when Germany pulls up, Romano butts out the cigarette and approaches him.

"Hey," he says.

"Hello," Germany nods curtly. "Thanks for inviting me out."

"Well," replies Romano. "I've booked a table. Let's go in."

"Yes," Germany fidgets in his jacket. "Let's."

Duke's is a modern Italian restaurant with some classical rustic charm. Romano orders from the waitress some drinks when they sit down, and they're given menus. Embarrassingly, the candles on their table are lit and Germany sips his water, not willing to pat the dog that bit him just yet.

He's hungry though, so he hopes Romano orders soon. The menu however, is all in Italian, and though he can read a few words, it's pretty much just words to him.

"What are you thinking?" Romano says. "Have you ever tried number 30?"

Germany looks to the number and reads the information about the dish, but he doesn't understand it. Romano continues.

"It's an Italian specialty. I'll pay. My treat tonight. You should taste the real Italia, huh?" Romano almost smiles at this and takes a sip of his wine. He clicks his fingers over for the waitress to serve them. She does. Romano is charming towards her, like the shop assistant yesterday. Romano orders, and then the waitress leaves.

"So…," Germany sighs deeply. "Have you thought any more about it?"

"About what?" Romano snaps back.

"Me… marrying Feliciano."

"Not really," Romano sighs. "You seem like you're trying, but really, how much can I trust you with Feliciano? Grandpa left an awful amount of money."

"You think I'm after Feliciano's money?"

"Well, after the two wars you lost-,"

"Seventy years ago," Germany points out. "And I'm doing very well, thank you. Not that my financial status is any of your business?"

"And just how long is this marriage for? Forever?" Romano replies. "Forever is a pretty long time! Just go ask Finland and that creep Sweden!"

"I wouldn't be here asking you if I hadn't thought it through," Germany replies. "As hard as it may be to hear, Romano, I do love your brother. I've loved your brother centuries. I won't deny I've had a rough patch, especially earlier in the 20th century, but-,"

The meals arrive at the table, then. Germany is given a meatball and pasta looking dish and Romano also has pasta, though it must have a pesto and herb mix through it because it's a deep green colour.

Germany picks up the fork and swirls the pasta around it. It has a deep tomato paste. Romano bites his pasta and takes a sip of his wine.

"Do you like?"

"Hmm," Germany bites into one of the meatballs. "It's certainly… different. But it is nice. What did you say this was called?"

Romano puts on a harsh Italian accent and says, so it's hardly legible, "Testicollo del cavallo," and does a very large hand gesture to confuse the German. Germany nods and takes a sip of water before continuing to eat.

"You know, Germany," Romano says and the German realises he's referred to him in something that isn't a derogative nickname.

"You can call me Ludwig. That's my name, you know," Germany replies.

"No thanks. But I guess I can reconsider," Romano replies. "I mean, I can see you're trying to make an effort – eating Italian food and inviting me to do such things. Perhaps I'm a little jealous, because Feliciano does talk about you all the time."

Germany can hardly believe it. What a thing for Romano to say!

"Well, I never meant to come between you," Germany replies humbly. "And to Italy, you will always be his brother – he talks about you to me all the time."

Romano nods and sips his wine. The rest of the evening goes pleasantly, much to Germany's surprise. Romano picks up the tab but Germany buys him a bottle of wine over dinner and then, feeling very happy, Germany drives home at eight to Feliciano, who has already picked out a movie.

"How was work?" Feliciano asks.

"Fine," Germany says. "We went out for dinner, to an Italian restaurant, which was strange."

"VE!" Italy beams as they settle into watch the film. They remain silent for the first fifteen minutes of the film, spooned against each other and cuddled into the lounge suite.

"So what did you eat for dinner, Luddy?" Italy rolls over and looks up to his lover. The light from the television touches only half his face and the outlined of his parted lips.

"Don't really know," Germany replies. "But it was very nice." Then he leans down and kisses Italy softly against the lips, because really, it was hard not to when the man is looking at him like that, with those beautiful eyes. It's only meant to be a small kiss but it lingers, and he becomes hungry and Italy responds back eagerly, wrapping his arms around Germany's neck and pulling him down.

"Feliciano," Germany almost whines and there's no doubt left in Italy's mind what exactly Germany wants.

"Frisky tonight?" Italy breathes and laughs when Germany begins to kiss down his neck.

"It's okay," Italy replies when he feels Ludwig slackening off. "I don't really want to watch the movie anyway." He smiles and Italy's eyes shimmer in the light. "Let's go to the bedroom."

And Germany can't really say no.

The next morning is beautifully lazy and slow. They tumble in the sheets for quite some time before deciding to shower and get dressed. Italy is sitting on the end of the bed, buttoning up his shirt when he looks over to Germany.

"You never told me what you had for dinner last night?" Feliciano asks. "What sort of pasta?"

Germany frowns. "I don't really remember the name, to be honest."

"Try."

Germany thinks for a moment.

"Hmm… something something del cavallo."

"Cavallo?" Italy frowns. "Are you sure, Germany?"

"Yes," Germany goes into his wallet and takes out the receipt he'd gotten paying for the wines. "Ja. Here it is. It's called Testicollo del cavallo."

Italy suddenly clamps his hands over his mouth.

"Really?" Italy whispers. Germany frowns. "It really says that?"

"Yes," Germany replies. "Why, what's the matter?"

"Who ordered you that?" Italy demands.

"My business partner, he could speak Italian," Germany responds. A terrible, terrible feeling is sinking into his gut and really, he's been so nice and naïve, he should have seen this coming. "W-what is it, Feliciano?"

"Del cavallo is…," Italy replies shakily. "Well… in Italian… means, of the horse."

Germany doesn't say anything for a moment.

"I was told it was an Italian delicacy."

"It is," Italy replies. "Well, it is – I've never had them, but lots of old men eat it to um… keep everything good in the marriage. You eat it to have good sex."

"What exactly is it?" Germany demands. He's so so so close to hunting down Romano and just strangling him. Maybe he can put a hit out, maybe Switzerland can do it. Maybe he can do it nice and slow and painful.

"Well… it's the um, sexy parts of the horse. The…testicles."

For a long time, there's silence.

Germany feels sick.

Germany wants to be sick. But the balls are already in his lower intestine and he can't get rid of them for another six or so hours.

He wants to punch Romano in his snooty, shit-arsed face that little fuck.

"Ve, Luddy, you want to tell that business partner of yours to shove it," Italy pouts. "If I ever see him, I'll give him a piece of my mind!"

Germany's frozen. His mind is blank, and his limbs are solid but inside… oh inside he's boiling and simmering like hot liquid lava. Germany hopes Romano's ready for an explosion that puts Pompeii to shame.

* * *

Thank you for all your lovely reviews! I love hearing from you guys ~ isn't Romano a lovable little turd?

Please take a moment to leave a short message before you go. I love hearing from you guys!

~ **Arlia'Devi**


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